Chapter 5 - SOMEONE TRIED TO MAKE ME A WIDOW
The second attack came at Sunday dinner.
That was what terrified Isabella most.
Not warehouse.
Not dark road.
Home.
Matteo’s mother, Elena Rienzi, hosted twenty-one relatives in the estate dining room.
Peace theater.
Contis on one side.
Rienzis on the other.
Isabella hated the arrangement immediately.
She moved three place cards.
Matteo noticed.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing the seating.”
“Why?”
“Because if the point is peace, separating everyone by surname seems stupid.”
He looked toward the room.
Then helped.
His mother saw.
Approved.
Vittorio arrived last.
Dark suit.
Silver tie.
Warm smile.
He kissed Isabella’s cheek.
“My beautiful niece.”
Not legally niece.
Family language moved quickly.
Isabella kept her face calm.
“Vittorio.”
Paolo arrived three minutes later.
Their eyes did not meet.
That was almost more suspicious than if they had embraced.
The forensic team had advised:
Act normal.
Do not confront.
Preserve evidence.
Isabella discovered she hated normal.
Dinner began.
Wine.
Pasta.
Roast lamb.
Conversations about weather and charities while everyone carried enough secrets to destroy the table.
Matteo barely drank.
One sip of wine.
Then water.
Halfway through dinner, Isabella noticed him rubbing his thumb against the side of his glass.
Small movement.
Repeated.
She leaned closer.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Terrible lie.
His pupils looked slightly wrong.
Too small.
Skin pale.
“Matteo.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
His speech was normal.
Mostly.
Then his glass slipped.
Hit the table.
Water spilled.
Everyone turned.
Matteo reached for edge.
His body swayed.
Isabella stood.
“Don’t touch him.”
Vittorio rose.
“What happened?”
“Stay back.”
Her clinic training took over.
Pulse.
Fast.
Skin clammy.
Breathing slowing.
She looked at plate.
Food shared.
Nobody else sick.
Drink?
Matteo’s wine.
Barely touched.
Water refilled by staff.
Then she saw a tiny blue residue along inside rim of his water glass.
Medication?
Drug?
“Call Greco.”
she ordered.
Rosa already was.
Matteo’s eyes struggled to focus.
“Isabella.”
“I’m here.”
He tried standing.
“No.”
She pushed him gently back.
“Stay.”
He almost smiled.
“Ordering me again.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then his head dropped.
Chaos erupted.
Men reached inside jackets.
Isabella screamed:
“No guns!”
Everyone froze.
“Someone wants exactly that.”
Matteo’s mother stared.
“What?”
Isabella pointed toward the table.
“They want everyone blaming everyone.”
“So sit down.”
The authority in her own voice surprised her.
Salvatore stood.
“Isabella—”
“Dad.”
“Please.”
He stopped.
Matteo collapsed sideways.
Isabella and Nico caught him.
Dr. Greco arrived within twelve minutes.
Too long.
He carried naloxone and other emergency medication because Rienzi doctors apparently traveled like combat medics.
The first dose helped.
Matteo inhaled sharply.
Isabella nearly cried.
Greco examined residue.
“Likely opioid derivative.”
“Hospital.”
Matteo tried:
“No.”
Isabella leaned over him.
“Yes.”
“Isabella—”
“You can fire me tomorrow.”
His eyes closed again.
“He can’t fire his wife.”
Rosa said.
“Excellent.”
Isabella replied.
They took him to a private hospital.
Not family clinic.
Isabella insisted on toxicology through independent laboratory.
No Rienzi chain.
No Conti chain.
Matteo regained full consciousness two hours later.
He opened his eyes.
Saw Isabella.
Then:
“Did I miss dessert?”
She burst into tears.
Not delicate tears.
Angry ones.
“You absolute idiot.”
He looked confused.
“I was poisoned.”
“I noticed.”
“I’m not sure how that makes me—”
“You argued with the ambulance.”
“Habit.”
She hit his arm.
Not hard.
He almost smiled.
Then saw how badly she was shaking.
His expression changed.
“Come here.”
She froze.
He waited.
Choice.
Always.
Isabella moved into his arms.
Carefully around his wound.
Her face pressed against his chest.
His heartbeat.
Steady now.
“I thought you were dying.”
He held her.
“Apparently I’m inconvenient.”
She laughed through tears.
“Extremely.”
Neither mentioned the first kiss.
This felt more intimate.
Fear stripped away performance.
Then Matteo whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
“For being poisoned?”
“For bringing you into this.”
She pulled back.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to make my marriage something that happened to me.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“It was arranged.”
“Yes.”
“I still said vows.”
“Under pressure.”
“Yes.”
“And I am still choosing what I do now.”
She looked at him.
“I chose to stay.”
His face became very still.
“Isabella.”
“I’m not saying forever.”
“Good recovery.”
She almost smiled.
“But stop apologizing as if I have no agency.”
Matteo nodded.
“Fair.”
Then Nico entered.
His expression told them immediately.
“What?”
Matteo asked.
“The glass.”
“Poison confirmed.”
“Who handled it?”
“Four people.”
“Server.”
“Rosa.”
“Matteo.”
“And Vittorio.”
Silence.
Isabella’s stomach tightened.
“When?”
Nico answered:
“Vittorio moved Matteo’s glass when changing seats.”
Isabella remembered.
Before dinner, people moved place cards.
Vittorio had joked about confusion.
Touched glasses.
Maybe.
“Cameras?”
Matteo asked.
“Dining room privacy system doesn’t record table.”
Of course.
“Server?”
“Clean.”
“Rosa?”
Matteo looked offended.
Nico ignored.
“Clean.”
“Then?”
“No proof.”
Matteo stared toward hospital window.
Isabella knew what he wanted.
Action.
He did not move.
Progress.
Then Nico added:
“There’s more.”
A warehouse fire started thirty minutes after Matteo collapsed.
Rienzi-owned facility.
Evidence room containing original Arden invoices.
Destroyed?
Partly.
Sprinklers saved server equipment.
Timing unmistakable.
Poison Matteo.
Create family chaos.
Burn records.
Vittorio had motive.
Still no direct proof.
Then Isabella’s phone rang.
Luca.
Her brother.
She answered.
“Luca?”
His breathing was fast.
“Where are you?”
“Hospital.”
“Matteo?”
“Alive.”
“Good.”
Then:
“I found something.”
“What?”
“I went into Paolo’s office.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not as patient as all of you.”
Typical Luca.
“What did you find?”
“A second copy of the marriage agreement.”
Isabella frowned.
“There’s only one.”
“No.”
“There’s a rider.”
“What rider?”
Luca lowered his voice.
“If Matteo dies before you have a child, Paolo gets Pier Nineteen.”
Silence.
Impossible.
“Luca.”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Send me a picture.”
“I will.”
Then she heard a door open on his end.
Luca stopped breathing.
A man’s voice.
“Who are you calling?”
Paolo.
The line went dead.
Isabella stared at phone.
Matteo was already trying to sit up.
“No.”
she said.
“My brother—”
“I heard.”
“You are staying in bed.”
“Isabella.”
“You nearly stopped breathing.”
“Luca is with Paolo.”
“And Nico can move faster than a man with stitches and opioids in his bloodstream.”
Matteo stared.
Then, reluctantly:
“Nico.”
Already calling.
No answer from Luca.
Again.
Nothing.
His location stopped updating two minutes later.
Paolo’s phone also went offline.
Salvatore sent men to his brother’s office.
Empty.
One overturned chair.
Broken phone.
Blood on floor.
Not much.
Enough.
And the photograph Luca managed to send before the call ended arrived on Isabella’s screen.
A hidden rider to the peace agreement.
Signed by Paolo Conti.
Signed by Vittorio Rienzi.
Not signed by Salvatore.
Not signed by Matteo.
It stated that if the marriage terminated through Matteo’s death before producing a recognized descendant, operational control of Pier Nineteen would transfer for ten years to a joint emergency committee.
Co-chairs:
Paolo Conti.
Vittorio Rienzi.
Isabella looked at her husband.
“They didn’t want peace.”
Matteo’s face became cold.
“No.”
May you like
“They wanted succession.”
And somewhere in New York, her brother had disappeared with the proof.
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